


rockin' out just for the dead

by Confessions_of_a_Closet_Bibliophile



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Ending, Episode: s02e21 All Hell Breaks Loose, Episode: s02e22 All Hell Breaks Loose, Gen, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23423149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Confessions_of_a_Closet_Bibliophile/pseuds/Confessions_of_a_Closet_Bibliophile
Summary: When Sam dies in Dean’s arms in Cold Oak, South Dakota, Dean dies too.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 28





	rockin' out just for the dead

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I Think I'll Wait Another Year](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3945430) by [dear_monday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dear_monday/pseuds/dear_monday). 



> This was inspired by I Think I’ll Wait Another Year by dear_monday. I can’t do it justice, not with the style and sheer heartbreak that they do. But until someone else writes exactly this, I guess I’m stuck filling my own unwritten prompts. By the way, for any writers reading this, feel free to write something that totally blows this out of the water. And then let me know, so I can read it and weep. (Happy tears, people! Or...sad tears but for a good cause?)
> 
> This isn't super incestuous, but Sam and Dean have a weirdly close relationship, so I figured I'd tag it just to be sure. 
> 
> I’ve been brainstorming for another zombieAU! with a different kind of zombie and a different narration style. However, this idea got stuck in my head the other night. I’ve been listening to Desert Song by My Chemical Romance a lot recently, so it put me in a certain kind of mood.

When Sam dies in Dean’s arms in Cold Oak, South Dakota, Dean dies too. Maybe not physically, not in any way that can be measured and dissected by doctors or analyzed by shrinks. But his main motivation since he was four and watching his house burn to the ground with his mom inside has been Sammy. Keep Sam safe, make him laugh, protect him. He’d driven Sam to the bus station, broke his own heart in two, and let him go.

He’s not sure that he’s strong enough to do it again. 

For hours, Dean drifts. He’s been cast to sea without his anchor. He sits at Sam’s bedside, wants to pretend like he’s just sleeping. Sam has always been a restless sleeper though, damn near broke Dean’s face kicking in the night that one time they got tired of sharing a bed and arranged themselves toes-to-noses for more space. They’d never repeated that experiment again.

Dean knows Sam, and he can’t fool himself. He’s too still, too quiet. 

Dean holds vigil that first night. He doesn’t say a word as the minutes creep by and the world continues to spin. At first, he can see Bobby out of the corner of his eye, talking to him. Dean doesn’t hear him, only the same overwhelming ringing in his ears, everything muffled and tainted with vertigo, like he’s walked into a dark room after being outside.

When the sun begins to claw its way up the edge of the horizon, sending a warm red glow through Bobby’s windows, lighting Sam up, _he’s so beautiful_ , Dean starts to pray. Lord knows he’s never tried before, outside of exorcisms if that counts. But he thinks that maybe he can remember something from the summer they’d spent at Pastor Jim’s. 

His knees crack as he levers himself out of the chair, limbs stiff from inactivity, and falls to his knees by the bed. Reaching out, he cradles Sam’s hands in his, shuddering at their unnatural coolness. For Sam, he reminds his traitorous heart. Although Dean’s not sure that he can ever bring himself to believe in a God, certainly not love one who would take Sam away like this, he prays.

_May the Lord in his love and mercy help you._

He weeps, forehead pressed tightly to their clenched hands, hot tears running down to anoint Sam’s body.

_May the Lord save you._

He stares at Sam, commits his face to memory, burning it like a brand so he’ll remember this when he’s forgotten everything else.

_May the Lord raise you up._

And Dean lets Sam go. 

He’s tempted, in the beginning, to make a deal.

He dreams vividly of a world where he’d driven like mad to the nearest crossroads, begged for Sam’s soul, traded all that he had to have him back.

To live in bliss for one short year.

He wants, he aches for this world. But he wakes and knows that Sam would hate it, would hate living the rest of his life understanding that he breathes because Dean doesn’t. And Dean’s not willing to trade Sam’s guilt to take away his own pain. He’s never believed in God, but he’s sure that there’s a paradise. That’s where Sam’s gone.

Dean will be damned long before he steals Sam from heaven.

In the face of Bobby’s increasingly thunderous protests, Dean insists that they don’t burn Sam. Bobby shouts and rails until his face is red and sweating. They compromise and bury him, enclosed in a ring of salt, in a field at the far edge of Bobby’s property. The grass will never grow back completely.

Dean gets into Baby and drives away. 

Dean keeps hunting, because what else would he do? He was made to kill, to stand between oblivious civilians and the monsters that prowl in the dark. Sam’s absence is noticeable, though Dean swears he can hear him sometimes.

His laughter echoes when Dean fights off a small, dwarf-like creature by, of all things, blasting “Black Dog” through Baby’s speakers.

“Zeppelin, Sammy!” Dean says in case he can hear, wherever he is. “I beat ‘em with the power of Zeppelin and an awesome sound system.”

He grins, anticipating Sam’s response.

“I bet your emo rock wouldn’t have done half as good, man, no little trickster’s scared of the Goo Goo Dolls.”

He thinks of Sam’s epic bitchface when he sweet talks the pretty waitress in a roadside diner. He misses getting to dump half the research on someone else. The hotel room feels too quiet a lot of the time, and he's hyperaware of the negative space where Sam should be.

More importantly, Dean remembers his compassion, that bleeding heart that had driven him crazy. He thinks about Sam when he’s interviewing a grieving father, chasing down an unwitting and unwilling turned vampire, guiding the sister of a confused spirit to helping her move on. He tries to be better for Sam so that maybe, one day, he can make it to where Sam is. 

Dean’s eating a burger and flipping through channels when he finds out.

Shaky footage of a cemetery, slowly focusing on vibrant green grass in front of a headstone. A hand bursts through the ground, grasping, reaching, and the angle pans to show more of the same.

The dead are rising, and everyone’s losing their minds.

Dean’s more focused on that split-second shot of a weathered, old grave marker.

**L.M.A. 1832-1888.**

Given even a fraction of that time, most exhumed corpses would be nothing more than a pile of old bones. Dean's cracked open enough caskets in his time to know. It was a hand, definitely a hand, but not a skeletal one.

Flesh covering bone.

Dean falls off the bed in his haste, grabs his duffel, and gets the hell outta Dodge. 

It takes him about three hours pedal-to-the-metal to get to Bobby’s. He spends it all stamping down the wild hope blooming in his chest, orange and pink and soft yellow trying to take flight. Every breath feels light and easy in a way that it hasn’t in four years.

It’s a scary thing, hope.

Whether by chance or on purpose, Dean has gone his whole life until now motivated by duty. He’s seen too many people lose hope to trust it.

Even though he knows it’d be courtesy to call Bobby and let him know he’s on his way, Dean can’t. He’s sure that Bobby would be able to tell something’s up, and he can’t start having faith now. Not until he can see it for himself. ‘Sides, it’s not like Dean’s never just popped in without warning before.

The highway stretches out before Baby like a lazy black snake.

Dean slams into Bobby’s driveway and heads right to the trunk for a shovel. In his hurry, he slams the top shut too hard and has to whisper a soft, “Sorry, Baby,” and rub her remorsefully.

Then he’s off and running. 

He comes to a stop near the property line, huffing and puffing, leaning heavily on the shovel and resolving to go jogging sometime, he swears he will. He shakes his head to clear it, still gasping in painfully chilly gulps, and gets to work.

The shovel drives into the ground, cuts through sod with Dean’s right boot on the step. He digs carefully because Sam will never stop bitching if Dean cuts off his arm or something.

His mouth pulls up into a crooked, seldom-used smile as he imagines Sam's griping.

"Would it have killed you to be a little more careful, jerk?"

Despite all the promises he made to himself, he starts to think, _maybe_. He starts counting on Sam to be there to get all huffy and moody.

He keeps digging. And digging. 

Jesus Christ, he forgot how far down Sam was buried. Why didn't they dig a shallower grave?

The ground's still frozen over from winter, and Dean has to stop and pull off his jacket.

It’s only ‘cause he’s keeping an eye out that he notices the earth start to shift and move. He drops down and scoops at it with his hands, throwing dark, loamy soil over his shoulder. An arm surges up blindly to grab Dean’s.

 _Sam_.

Dean’s face hurts, he’s grinning so hard. He feels like he’s flying, like warm air roaring in through open windows at 80 miles an hour. He takes Sam’s hand, pulls him up to sitting through the remaining wet dirt, sputtering and coughing. 

“Dean?” Sam asks, turning his head to spit and rubbing at his face blearily. “What? I don’t-”

He chokes and wheezes in air as Dean wipes bits of turf from his lashes with his shirt. He tries to pull back, but Dean brings his other hand up to clutch the back of his head, pinning it there. Sam's hot, sweaty forehead against Dean's heartbeat. He's warm and fighting Dean and _alive_.

"Stop it, Sam. Just let me hold you."

He's shaking, Dean is, even though he's trying to control it. Sam blinks, eyelashes tickling bare skin, and stops struggling. Dean sinks down, folding in half over him. He relishes every puff of air that Sam breathes out, keeps beat with them and finds himself settling. He'll sit here as long as Sam lets him.

“Sammy,” he says.

It’s as easy as breathing. 


End file.
